Backstroking a crossover to gain the speed that will push him off the ground and have him land the salchow, landing both left and fast in the opposite direction from where he's facing. Hard and fast and clean, he can feels it even as it surges relief, and triumph, and then blows right away again, leaving only a momentary awareness of chilled air on the beading sweat rising on his skin. More things he has no time, no focus for. Because the end is coming. The last big push.
The moment reprieve from launches into a winding step sequence that requires him to move his feet faster than his breath could ever follow, and yet it feels easy. It feels perfect. It feels like he could do this for hours and hours more. Half there and half not, half a dream, flooding through him as every close, fast shifting step completes itself exactly how it's supposed to, sliding right into each next one.
Before it comes. Heading there, always heading there. Taking only enough time to ready for it through it.
Straight and straight and straight gathering speed, before he turns backwards in the three-turn and launches himself into the air by only the grace of the bare inch of metal that is his toe pick. Quad toe loop, landing the exact same way, and slamming right back off his quad and his toe pick, into a triple of the exact same jump, before the momentum can even begin flag. It too lands, without a wobble, but he has no time. No time, no time.
Sliding next into his another camel spin, but this one only long enough for the graceful, perfect line, before it drops into the second sit spin combination. Not flying this time, but a death drop. Around and around and around, at midlevel with his arms out, before it lower, tighter, coiling in and in and in faster. Speed fighting with air, giving up breathing, picking up and up and up, the tighter he coils, the harder he holds close, spinning on one blade, so close to the ground.
Holding one foot, only to let go, and thrust upward, and backward. Not holding on now, but throwing everything off, everything away.
Himself and the whole of everything he's done. Closed in, on only himself, with the snap of his arms as the music ends. Blood pounding in his ears, through his whole body, muscles pushed to every limit, as his lungs finally catch up with the need for air at the same time as he realizes the audience is a riot of noise beyond the floodlights.
Stamping feet, screaming voices, clapping, and cheering, a blur of waving and jumping bodies, on their feet.
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Backstroking a crossover to gain the speed that will push him off the ground and have him land the salchow, landing both left and fast in the opposite direction from where he's facing. Hard and fast and clean, he can feels it even as it surges relief, and triumph, and then blows right away again, leaving only a momentary awareness of chilled air on the beading sweat rising on his skin. More things he has no time, no focus for. Because the end is coming. The last big push.
The moment reprieve from launches into a winding step sequence that requires him to move his feet faster than his breath could ever follow, and yet it feels easy. It feels perfect. It feels like he could do this for hours and hours more. Half there and half not, half a dream, flooding through him as every close, fast shifting step completes itself exactly how it's supposed to, sliding right into each next one.
Before it comes. Heading there, always heading there. Taking only enough time to ready for it through it.
Straight and straight and straight gathering speed, before he turns backwards in the three-turn and launches himself into the air by only the grace of the bare inch of metal that is his toe pick. Quad toe loop, landing the exact same way, and slamming right back off his quad and his toe pick, into a triple of the exact same jump, before the momentum can even begin flag. It too lands, without a wobble, but he has no time. No time, no time.
Sliding next into his another camel spin, but this one only long enough for the graceful, perfect line, before it drops into the second sit spin combination. Not flying this time, but a death drop. Around and around and around, at midlevel with his arms out, before it lower, tighter, coiling in and in and in faster. Speed fighting with air, giving up breathing, picking up and up and up, the tighter he coils, the harder he holds close, spinning on one blade, so close to the ground.
Holding one foot, only to let go, and thrust upward, and backward.
Not holding on now, but throwing everything off, everything away.
Himself and the whole of everything he's done. Closed in, on only himself, with the snap of his arms as the music ends. Blood pounding in his ears, through his whole body, muscles pushed to every limit, as his lungs finally catch up with the need for air at the same time as he realizes the audience is a riot of noise beyond the floodlights.
Stamping feet, screaming voices, clapping, and cheering,
a blur of waving and jumping bodies, on their feet.
All of them.